Tag Archives: cheap

This author knows he’s a year late to this, but I had to expose it to more people, for the sheer comedy of it.

Made by some chick named T-Baby (how very original of her)…and she proves herself to be completely tone deaf. I hope she rides her baby daddy better than she rides beats (then again, maybe not, she’ll probably crank out a Down Syndrome kid like Precious). Plus how the f*ck was she s’posed to keep the beat (pun intended, watch the vid, thank me later) if whoever’s on the boards recording her ain’t telling her anything? Sitting there just takin’ her money (yeah, studio time is expensive, but f*ck and that, you should have concern for your reputation). And she’s clearly not doing this as a joke, but taking herself very seriously…though I don’t think her entourage behind her got the memo (guess her hardrock cousins weren’t available that day).

Way to demonstrate why they should have never given ghetto people technology…or electricity to power it.

Straight disgrace to Detroit rap. Not to condone violence against women, but House Shoes should stomp her out in house shoes. Trick Trick need to slap that trick trick. Guilty Simpson should earn his name and slash her with a butterknife or something. Fight dull with dull.

They probably roadblocked the bridge and the tunnel to Windsor the day this cut dropped in order to slow down the next Great Migration. Detroit’s had enough of a brain drain already.

Message be damned, not many people are meant to rap. I mean really, she’s what’s left over after the rest of the Detroit Hip-Hop scene moves to L.A.? She makes Soulja Boy and Gucci Mane look like Rakim and Kane. It couldn’t have been THAT cold in the D when she cranked this out, right? Certainly wasn’t the day of the video shoot, what with her in orange hair to match her printed hoodie. I hope she got her money back from the people behind the camera, then gave them 1 star on Yelp or whatever.

And she got her goddamn nerve offering this as a ringtone! Isn’t having song ringtones played out now?

There’s literally 139 response videos to this on YouTube. But f*ck all that, comment here when you’re done.

Special thanks to Maximillian over on Very Smart Brothas for putting me on to this.

Of course we knew Jacko’s name would be used to make mad people money (and ratings–say hi, BET!)…and of course people go mad in the process:
Because yeah, Michael Jackson not only makes people hungry on the evening dinner hunt, but in the obvious way he was out to shape his image, he really wanted his name associated with fried chicken.
Hoodie Award winning fried chicken at that. And as insult to injury, they had the nerve to not even offer white meat.

The hood shows in very laughable and shameless ways that it sometimes just doesn’t get it. Vaaaaaan Damme…

Ghetto people love self-medicating just like anyone who frequents bars on Friday nights or grips a bag of smoke for a night of laughs over Madden. Thing is, ghetto people get it in so often, and knowingly in the most inappropriate times, that they have to find sneaky ways to accomplish the buzz they need.

Weed smokers have the pipe that’s shaped and colored like a metal cigarette (which this author can’t imagine feels good to rock between the lips when it gets extra hot, but it is nifty). Drinkers have the flask as one option, but warm liquor is quite vile, screwface-inducing stuff. Besides a flask looking some kind of way to own, your average round-the-clock alki doesn’t want to get caught making said screwface after a sip, so he needs a way around it.

Enter a bottle of your average soft drink.

Rum & Coke. Jack & Coke (Jack Daniels really needs Coke, because it tastes like gasoline). Gin & Socko was an old hood favorite (probably why Socko/Super Socco is absent from the market). And one this author arrived upon, rum in a coconut (Liz Blizz) Sobe!

It started with this African liquor that was on sale called Konyagi (supposedly Tanzanian, don’t care to fact check at the time of writing this). Gripped a bottle of it, sipped the Sobe just past the ridge below the neck, then poured the Konyagi in to just about the top. Give it a shake and, as long as it’s cold enough, you don’t taste anything but the Sobe…alcohol blends right on in so you can enjoy as normal, and the bend simply sneaks up on you later. So all you ghetto types who drink before you get in the club got something for the drive on the way there. Or the bus for any day of the week.

On one condition. Make dead sure that *ss mixes in some Orbit gum for your vomit breath…and use clear rum. Don’t be ghetto enough to commit the dummy move of this author and use a gold rum, lest you have this loud-with-alcohol swill that looks like you poured milk from your cereal into the toilet you just whizzed in. Also make sure you have somewhere worth going to and chilling at for a while, so you won’t be forced to have the mixer chilling in the freezer on a bunk night where you end up limping home early.

One benefit of the mixed rum & Sobe being in the freezer is that it usually won’t really freeze, and if it does, it melts rather quickly, so it’s immediately crispy cold and ready to go for the lush in you. Until next time, don’t say I never did anything for you.

We all know the hood loves hustling…and we all know the hood loves hustlers. This might be what allows a certain breed of hustlers to turn on a dime. A brother once told this author that hustling is about finding what the people want or need and providing it for them.

Easily this is what’s going on when those damn tents get set up on every block during weekends, holidays, big concerts, event sports, and such. Team car flags, the bootleg T-shirt of the month with the name of the ghetto hit song on the front, weird throw rugs, umbrellas when it rains, what have you. Back after the September 11th attacks happened, these folks were literally on it the very next day with American flags. One would swear there’s an all-purpose corner hustle warehouse all the street vendors converge on where the aforementioned is available along with the usual oils, incense, and fake Jordans.

I even once saw this Mexican cat selling boxing and martial arts equipment (because ya never know when someone passing by was thinking of training with a heavy bag for their living room). As said in a past post, it’s a bazaar every single day in the hood.

But by far this author’s favorite is when the people pop up with them funky *ss gift baskets (AKA ghetto grab bags). Without fail, every Valentine’s, Easter, Father’s Day, and especially Mother’s Day weekend, there they are…sometimes one on all four corners of an intersection.

And what’s in these baskets? Myriad bullsh*t, basically. One could probably slap together baskets with Smarties left over from Halloween, used panties, a jar of styling gel, dried-out incense, old condoms they got from the free clinic, bootleg DVDs they’re done watching, a pair of earrings that gave their previous owner keloids in her nose (!), and a stuck-together copy of King magazine, with a bed of dead grass clipped from their front yard, wrapped up in a see-thru trash bag and make a killing.

Since no two are alike, surely there’s some ghetto woman tacky enough to have a basket collection in her house akin to some nerdy fanboy who collects Transformers. Probably wants the hypothetical gift basket I just described. And some shrew(d) of a hustler was just given the idea to sell it to her.

Hell, there’s probably some cornball parent who bought one to stash away for the daughter’s prom gift…

Kentucky had a promotion today where they were giving away a piece of their Grilled Chicken in order to jump start people paying for some. So your esteemed author figured to swing over to one after the morning business was wrapped up.

I walk in, there’s a line six deep, and I figured I was gonna need to grab a Snickers as I would be in for a long campaign. But that was the pick-up line. The order line was clear. Cool! So I order a couple of Snackers and ask for a free thigh, pay and wait, figuring things would be straightforward.

Not 60 seconds later, a line snakes in back of me ordering with the rush of someone who’s been smokin’ that water. Should be neither here nor there, one would think. You think?

Five minutes pass, day laborer types were taking back pieces of chicken that were exposed to the dining area, and the workers were putting them right back under the lamps! (Suspect much? They gave those same pieces out to unsuspecting folks in the drive-thru.) Suddenly this furious pack of old ladies and county broads gets worked to a rich lather…and me with my hurt back listening out for the new material.

“Why don’t they just give us the chicken?!?”
“What are y’all doing back there?”
“At another Kentucky, they would just make a box and pass it out!”

All the loudmouth foolishness you can handle in one afternoon.

One woman sees a Latino cat given three sodas and immediately assumes “Look at them, see? They givin’ they people the hook up.”

OK, cut the crap, lady. Are you seriously assuming they would pull something like so blatant? You think Latinos are incapable of ordering and paying for something? Nah, they’re just randomly dropping free Pepsis on their own kind to stick it to you. Gotta love how the racism comes out when folks get angry.

(As I write this, what’s up with Leonardo DiCaprio with a Grambling cap on his head at the Laker game? Plus, Denver whacks New Orleans 121-63. Goddamn Bizarro World in the NBA…but I digress….)

Five more minutes pass and at that point, they were about ready to break out pitch forks and torches. One twentysomething brother (see guy pointing, top pic) finally goes off, rushes the order counter, yelling “F*ck that! I want my money back! F*ck this sh*t!” I had to call him on that, just as I did the aforementioned civil rights activist.

“There’s babies in here, money. Watch your mouth.”

Of course he didn’t care. And neither did the rest of the mob, so wrapped up in needing their chicken fix that all sense of decency went by the boards.

How about going off like this at the city council meeting to get things done? Where’s this anger about the local gang making trouble or about Black-on-Black crime?

But nah, save that anger…for when goddamn chicken isn’t in your hands fast enough. Preying on people that are doing their jobs as fast as they possibly can. At a place you’ll continue to patronize at that. Not to mention being ungrateful for something that’s free and really isn’t that important in the bigger picture.

All seriousness, the hood is at once a beautiful, vibrant place and its own worst enemy.

You hear it by every liquor store, every check cashing place, every chicken-and-chinese stand.

“Got them CDs, got them DVDs.”

The bootleg man got you when no one else does. Need that new Makaveli? It’s on deck. A fresh replacement copy of Soul Plane? It’s on deck. If it’s directed by Tyler Perry, starring Cube, or featuring T.I. or Cassie on the soundtrack, it’s on deck with the bootleg man.

Or there’s that other guy with the Econoline doors propped open….

“I got that Ed Hardy, that True Religion, that Prada…”

Don’t forget that crackhead who is a better salesman of furniture than anyone who ever worked for Levitz or Wickes. He also got those registration tags for your whip.

It’s a bazaar every single day in the hood. Whatever you want, for a limited time only, it’s yours if you think the price is right.

The guys that have all this fraudulent crap wouldn’t put in the work if it wasn’t so lucrative. Wouldn’t take the time to get that illicit editor’s copy, or sneak the video camera into the advanced screening, or buy in bulk from that warehouse…or ransack your neighbor’s property! Because somebody in the hood will take a flier on it. (And contribute to hood squalor in the process…but we know that don’t matter!)

Suckers and others line up to make sure they got the latest flick they ain’t tryna see in the theatre (more often than not a Black one) supporting piracy, and taking dollars away from the entertainers they obviously love enough to buy something featuring them in it, missing material and crappy sound and/or picture be damned. And we all know it’s the pits not being dipped, so ghetto corner-cutters would rather cut to the corner to have what they need to floss like a boss at the club on Friday (and drink real drinks, go figure) instead of recycling Black dollars a better way by supporting the store down the block that really needs the customers.

Keep this in mind when the “For Lease” sign goes up a week after the one that reads “Going Out Of Business.” Or your favorite entertainer is no longer a bankable star. Could have gone the extra mile and waited just a little bit longer for that legit product. But ghetto people don’t often worry about legit. No. They care about being up on the latest for as low a price as possible. Remember this when you see a fairly crispy pair of late-model Jordans on someone’s feet in colors you don’t remember Nike making, or the Lex on D’s you know damn well Pooky can’t afford. When they say they got the hookup, look for the fingers crossed behind their back! Or look for the smoker they got that deal on the Rolex from (then you’ll know who to blame for the receiving stolen property charges).

I remember first seeing a friend of a friend puff on one of these dark brown tip cigars in ’97. He didn’t even seem like the cigar type (at least not the type that wasn’t rolled into a blunt), but he was enjoying it. I had one with a quart of brew (NOT malt liquor!), and while it was decent enough, I didn’t taste or feel where it would spark this explosive appeal that followed.

Out of nowhere, the craze just swept a nation of ghetto people. A smoke that smelled so sweet, yet left its hood users with breath that reeked of pure. D. Doodoo. Plenty of occassions with my boy, I had to pop the Doublemint on him as if it was Wolverine’s claws. Even with that, so many among us, males and females, from ugly to fine, make sure they hit the liq store or the gas station everyday to get it in, to this day! That’s right, Black & Milds.

The average Joe or Jane will chuck a cigarette with the quickness, Same people that will turn up their nose at a square, or even weed, like they’re doing something will run thru these like fried chicken wings at a Home Town Buffet. And go out of their way to keep that Black ready to spark. Keep the plastic wrapper to sheath the Black in like a sword, even though their pocket (or the top of their ears) will be hummin’ from the already burned tobacco. Fiend so hard, these are often smoked right into the plastic tip on the reg. Black and Mild smokers are inhaling plastic smoke!! Might be the next link to autism in some years (save the hate mail).

Some will even put in all this work to “freak” the Black, so that they can take out the layered inner paper (called the “cancer paper”) most cheap cigars have. Yeah, pal, you just saved your life, by putting extreme effort, just a touch of love, into a 75 cent cigar that you inhale like a cigarette. Gotta love purpose-defeating ghetto priorities.